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Kitabı oku: «The Dice Man», sayfa 6
‘I won’t be able to control myself,’ I said.
‘You must try,’ she said dreamily. ‘I have sworn never to go to bed with you again.’
‘You what?’
‘I have sworn on my husband’s honor never to get into bed with you again.’
‘I’ll have to rape you.’
She looked up at me sadly.
‘Yes, I suppose so.’
Chapter Twelve
During the first month the dice had rather small effect on my life. I used them to choose ways to spend my free time, and to choose alternatives when the normal ‘I’ didn’t particularly care. They decided that Lil and I would see the Edward Albee play rather than the Critic’s Award play, that I read work x selected randomly from a huge collection; that I would cease writing my book and begin an article on ‘Why Psychoanalysis Usually Fails’; that I would buy General Envelopment Corporation rather than Wonderfilled Industries or Dynamicgo Company; that I would not go to a convention in Chicago; that I would make love to my wife in Kama Sutra position number 23, number 52, number 8, etc.; that I see Arlene, that I don’t see Arlene, etc.; that I see her in place x rather than place y and so on.
In short the dice decided things which really didn’t matter. Most of my options tended to be from among the great middle way of my tastes and personality. I learned to like to play with the probabilities I gave the various options I would create. In letting the dice choose among possible women I might pursue for a night, for example, I might give Lil one chance in six, some new woman chosen at random two chances in six, and Arlene three chances in six. If I played with two dice the subtleties in probability were much greater. Two principles I always took care to follow. First: never include an option I might be unwilling to fulfill; second: always begin to fulfill the option without thought and without quibble. The secret of the successful dicelife is to be a puppet on the strings of the die.
Six weeks after sinking into Arlene I began letting the dice diddle with my patients: it was a decisive step. I began creating as options that I comment aggressively to a patient as my insights arose; that I restudy some other standard analytic theory and method and adopt it for a specified number of hours with a patient; that I preach to my patients.
Eventually I began also to include as an option that I give my patients assigned psychological exercises much as a coach gives his athletes physical exercises: shy girl assigned to date make-out artist; aggressive bully assigned to pick a fight with ninety-eight-pound weakling and purposely lose; studious grind assigned to see five movies, go to two dances and play bridge a minimum of five hours a day all week. Of course, most meaningful assignments involved a breach of the psychiatrist’s code of ethics. In telling my patients what to do, I was becoming legally responsible for any ill consequences which might result. Since everything a typical neurotic does eventually has ill consequences, my giving them assignments meant trouble. It meant, in fact, the probable end of my career, a thought which for some reason I found exhilarating. I was like a professional psychiatrist, the very jockstrap of my basic self; I was becoming belly to belly with whim.
In the first few days the dice usually had me express freely my own feelings toward my patients – to break, in effect, the cardinal rule of all psychotherapy: do not judge. I began overtly condemning every shabby little weakness I could find in my sniveling, cringing patients. Great gob of God, that was fun. If you remember that for four years I had been acting like a saint, understanding, forgiving and accepting all sorts of human folly, cruelty and nonsense; that I had been thus repressing every normal reactive impulse, you can imagine the joy with which I responded to the dice letting me call my patients sadists, idiots, bastards, sluts, cowards and latent cretins. Joy. I had found another island of joy.
My patients and colleagues didn’t seem to appreciate my new roles. From this date my reputation began to decline and my notoriety to rise. My college professor of English at Yale, Orville Boggles, was the first troublemaker.
A big, toothy man with tiny dull eyes, he had been coming to me off and on for six months to overcome a writing block. He hadn’t been able to do more than sign his name for three years, and in order to maintain his academic reputation as a scholar he had been reduced to digging out term papers he had written as a sophomore at Michigan State, making small revisions and getting the articles published in quarterlies. Since no one read them past the second paragraph anyway, he hadn’t been caught; in fact, on the basis of his impressive list of publications he had received tenure the year before he came to me.
I had been unenthusiastically working on his ambivalent feelings toward his father, his latent homosexuality and his false image of himself, when under the impetus of the dictates of the dice I suddenly found myself one day exploding.
‘Boggles,’ I said after he arrived one morning (I had always previously addressed him as Professor Boggles), ‘Boggles,’ I said, ‘what say we cut the shit, and get down to basics? Why don’t you consciously and publicly decide to quit writing?’
Professor Boggles, who had just lain down and hadn’t yet said a word, quivered like a huge sunflower leaf at the first breath of a storm.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Why try to write?’
‘It is a pleasure I have long enjoyed –’
‘Merde.’
He sat up and looked toward the door as if he expected Batman to break in any moment and rescue him.
‘I came to you, not because I am neurotic, but in order to cure a very simple writing block. Now –’
‘You are a patient who came with a cold and who is dying of cancer.’
‘Now that you seem unable to cure the block you try to convince me not to write. I find this –’
‘You find this uncomfortable. But just imagine all the fun you could be having if you gave up trying to publish? Have you looked at a tree in the last six years?’
‘I’ve seen many trees. I want to publish, and I don’t know what you think you’re doing this morning.’
‘I’m letting down the mask, Boggles. I’ve been playing the psychiatrist game with you, pretending we were after big things like anal stage, object cathexis, latent heterosexuality and the like, but I’ve decided that you can only be cured by being initiated into the mysteries behind the façade, into the straight poop, so to speak. The straight poop, that’s symbolism. Boggles, that’s –’
‘I have no desire to be initiated –’
‘I know you don’t. None of us do. But I’m letting you pay me thirty-five dollars per hour, and I want to give you your money’s worth. First of all, I want you to resign from the university and announce to your department chairman, the board of trustees and to the press that you are going to Africa to re-establish contact with your animal origins.’
‘That’s nonsense!’
‘Of course it is. That’s the point. Think of the publicity you’ll get: “Yale professor resigns to seek Truth.” It’ll get a lot more play than your last article in the Rhode Island Quarterly on “Henry James and the London Bus Service.” Moreover –’
‘But why Africa?’
‘Because it has nothing to do with literature, academic advancement and full professorships. You won’t be able to fool yourself that you’re gathering material for an article. Spend a year in the Congo, try to get involved with a revolutionary group or a counter-revolutionary group, shoot a few people, familiarize yourself with the native drugs, let yourself get seduced by whatever comes along, male, female, animal, vegetable, mineral. After that, if you still feel you want to write about Henry James for the quarterlies, I’ll try to help you.’
He was sitting on the edge of the couch looking at me with nervous dignity. He said, ‘But why should you want me to stop wanting to write?’
‘Because as you are now, Boggles, and have been for forty-three years, you’re a dead loss. Absolutely. I don’t mean to sound critical, but absolutely. Deep down inside you know it, your colleagues know it and at all levels I know it. We’ve got to change you completely to make you worth taking money from. Normally I’d recommend that you have an affair with a student, but with your personality the only students who might open up for you would be worse off than you and no help.’
Boggles had stood up but I went serenely on.
‘What you need is a more extensive personal experience with cruelty, with suffering, hunger, fear, sex. Once you’ve experienced more fully these basics there might be some hope of a major breakthrough. Until then none.’
Old Boggles had his overcoat on now and with a toothy grimace was backing toward the door.
‘Good day, Dr Rhinehart, I hope you’re better soon,’ he said.
‘And a good day to you, Boggles. I wish I could hope the same for you, but unless you get captured by the Congolese rebels, or get sick in the jungle for eight months or become a Kurtzian ivory trader, I’m afraid there’s not much hope.’
I rose from behind my desk to shake hands with him, but he backed out the door. Six days later I got a polite letter from the president of the American Association of Practicing Psychiatrists (AAPP) noting that a patient of mine, a Dr Orville Boggles of Yale, had paranoic hallucinations about me and had sent a long, nasty, highly literary complaint to the AAPP about my behavior. I sent a note to President Weinstein thanking him for his understanding and a note to Boggles suggesting that the length of his letter to the AAPP indicated progress vis-à-vis his writing block. I also gave him permission to try to have his letter published in the South Dakota Quarterly Review Journal.
Chapter Thirteen
‘Jenkins,’ I said one morning to the masochist Milquetoast of Madison Avenue, ‘have you ever considered rape?’
‘I don’t understand,’ he said.
‘Forced carnal knowledge.’
‘I … don’t understand how you mean that I should consider it.’
‘Have you ever daydreamed of killing someone or of raping someone?’
‘No. No, I never have. I feel almost no aggression toward anyone.’ He paused. ‘Except myself.’
‘I was afraid of that, Jenkins, that’s why we’d better give serious consideration to rape, theft or murder.’
Jenkins lay neatly and quietly on the couch through this whole interview, not once raising his voice or stirring a muscle.
‘You … you mean daydream about such actions?’ he asked.
‘I mean commit them. As it is, Jenkins, you’re becoming just another dirty old man, aren’t you?’
‘P-p-pardon?’
‘Spend most of your time lying on your crumb-filled bed reading porno and fantasizing about lovely girls who need you to save them. After they’ve narrowly missed being crushed by the landslide, or cut in two by the cultivator, or stabbed by the lunatic or burnt by the fire, you rescue them and they give you a spiritual kiss on the fingertips, right? But when do you reach a climax, Mr Jenkins?’
‘I … I don’t know what … I don’t understand?’
‘Does the final pleasure come when you’re comforting the rescued girl or when the flames are licking at her face, the knife scraping along her veins, the cultivator about to mash her potatoes …? When?’
‘But I want to help people. I feel no aggression. Ever.’
‘Look, Jenkins, I’m sated with your passivity, your daydreaming. Haven’t you ever done anything?’
‘No opportunity has ever –’
‘Have you ever hurt another human?’
‘I can’t. I don’t want to. I want to save –’
‘First you’ve got to save yourself and that you can only do by breaking your inertia. I’m giving you an assignment for our Friday session. Will you do it for me?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t want to hurt people. My whole soul is based on that principle.’
‘I know it is. I know it is, and your soul’s sick, remember? That’s why you’re here.’
‘Please, I don’t want to rape any –’
‘You’ve noticed I have a new receptionist. I mean a second one?’ [She was a middle-aged call girl I had hired expressly to date Mr Jenkins.]
‘Er, yes, I have.’
‘She’s lovely, isn’t she?’
‘Yes, she is.’
‘And she’s a nice person, too.’
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘I want you to rape her.’
‘Oh no, no, I, no, it would not be a good idea.’
‘All right then, would you like to date her?’
‘But … is it ethical?’
‘What are you planning to do to her?’
‘I mean … she’s your receptionist … I thought –’
‘Not at all. Her private life is her own business. [It certainly was.] I want you to date her. Tonight. Take her to dinner and invite her back to your apartment and see what happens. If you get the urge to rape her, go ahead. Tell her it’s part of your therapy.’
‘Oh, no, no, I’d never want to do anything to hurt her. She seems such a lovely person.’
‘She is, which makes her all the more rapable. But have it your own way. Just do your best to feel aggression.’
‘Do you really think it might help if I got a little aggressive?’
‘Absolutely. Change your whole life. With hard work you might even make it to murder. But don’t brood if at first all you can do is swear under your breath at pedestrians.’ I stood up. ‘Now go. You’ll need a couple of minutes to wheedle Rita into accepting a date.’
It took him twenty, despite Rita’s trying to say ‘yes’ from the moment he told her his name. After three and a half weeks of Jenkins-style courting he finally managed to seduce her in the front seat of his Volkswagen, much to the relief of all concerned. To the further relief of the principals, they shifted to Jenkins’s apartment for further indoor work. The only evidence I was able to garner that Jenkins was trying to express aggression was that once he accidentally bumped her nose with his elbow and didn’t say he was sorry. Rita tried the old game of ‘Oh, you’re so masterful, hit me,’ but Jenkins responded by assuring her that no matter how masterful he was he would never hit anyone. She urged him to bite her breasts, but he said something about having weak gums. She tried to irritate him into anger by using her body to arouse him and then deny the desires she had aroused, but Jenkins sulked until she gave in.
Meanwhile he was trying every trick in the masochist’s trade to try to make Rita break off with him. He stood her up on two occasions (Rita sent a bill for her time), accidentally broke her wristwatch (I got the bill) and as a lover usually had his orgasm when she was least expecting it and in the middle of a yawn. Nevertheless, Rita clung lovingly – three hundred dollars a week – on.
At the end of a month of solid success with her, Jenkins was definitely more comfortable with women; he even flirted for five minutes with Miss Reingold. But he was also perilously close to a total nervous breakdown. Being unable to contract a venereal disease, make Rita pregnant, infuriate her, cause her to leave him or fail in any other obvious way, he was desperate. Of course, he’d compensated by accelerating the rate of failure in all other areas of his life. Twice he lost his wallet. He left the water in the bathtub running while he was out and flooded his apartment. Finally, one day he told me he’d lost so much money on the stock market since taking over his own investing, that he’d have to drop therapy.
I urged him to continue, but that afternoon he managed to get hit by a bulldozer while watching some construction and was hospitalized for six weeks. A few months later the dice told me to send him a bill for Rita’s services and, I regret to report, he promptly paid it. I’ve tentatively listed his case as a failure.
Other cases didn’t work out too well either. With a woman plagued by compulsive promiscuity I tried the William James method number three for breaking habits: oversatiation. I convinced her to work at a busy Brooklyn brothel for a week, figuring that would be enough to drive anyone to chastity, but she stayed a month. With the money she earned she hired one of her male customers to accompany her on a vacation to Puerto Vallarta. I haven’t seen her since, but have tentatively listed her case as a failure also.
My analytic sessions became role-playing sessions without the dice. But instead of restricting such role playing to drama and play as in Moreno-like drama therapy, I restricted it to real life. Everything had to be done with real people in real life.
In most cases over the next five months I assigned my patients to quit their jobs, leave their spouses, give up their hobbies, habits and homes, alter their religions, upset their sleeping, eating, copulation, thinking habits: in brief, to rediscover their unexpressed desires; to achieve their unfulfilled potential. But all this without telling them about the dice.
Without introducing the patients to the use of the dice as in my later dice therapy, the results, as you have begun to see, were generally disastrous. In addition to two lawsuits, one patient committed suicide (thirty-five dollars an hour out of the window), one was arrested for leading to the delinquency of a minor, and a last disappeared at sea in a sailing canoe on his way to Tahiti. On the other hand, I had a few distinct successes.
One man, a highly paid advertising executive, gave up his job and family and joined the Peace Corps, spent two years in Peru, wrote a book on faking land reform in underdeveloped countries, a book highly praised by everyone except the governments of Peru and the United States, and is now living in a cabin in Tennessee writing a book on the effects of advertising on underdeveloped minds. Whenever he’s in New York he drops in to suggest I write a book about the underdeveloped psyches of psychiatrists.
My other successes were less obvious and immediate.
There was Linda Reichman, for example. She was a slender, young rich girl who had spent her last four years living in Greenwich Village doing all the things rich, emancipated girls think they’re expected to do in Greenwich Village. In four weeks of treatment prior to my own emancipation, I had learned that this was her third analysis, that she loved to talk about herself, particularly her promiscuity, with indifference to and cruelty toward men, and their stupid ineffectual efforts to hurt her. Her monologues were occasionally flooded by literary, philosophical and Freudian allusions and as abruptly empty of them. Each session she usually managed to say something intended to shock my bourgeois respectability.
It was only three weeks after letting the dice dictate anarchy that I had a rather remarkable session with her. She’d come in even more keyed up than usual, swivel-hipped her rather swivelable hips across the room and flopped aggressively onto the couch. Much to my surprise she didn’t say a thing for three minutes; for her, an all-time record. Finally, with an edge to her voice, she said: ‘I get so sick and tired of this … shit. [Pause] I don’t know why I come here. [Pause] You’re about as much help as a chiropractor. Christ, what I’d give to meet a MAN someday. I meet nothing but … ball-less masturbators. [Pause] What a … stupid world it is. How do people get through their crumby lives? I’ve got money, brains, sex – I’m bored stiff. What keeps all those little clods without anything, what keeps all those little clods going? [Pause] I’d like to blast the whole thing … fucking city to pieces. [Long pause.]
‘I spent the weekend with Curt Rollins. For your info, he’s just published a novel that the Partisan Review calls – and I quote – “as stunningly poetic a piece of fiction as has appeared in years.” Unquote. [Pause] He’s got talent. His prose is like lightning: cutting, darting, brilliant; he’s a Joyce with the energy of Henry Miller. [Pause] He’s working on a new novel about fifteen minutes in the life of a young boy who’s just lost his father. Fifteen minutes – a whole novel. Curt’s cute, too. Most girls throw themselves at him. [Pause] He needs money. [Pause] It’s funny, he doesn’t seem to like sex much. Wham-bam, back to the old writing board. Wham-bam. [Pause] He liked the way I sucked him off though. But …
‘I’d like to chop his hands off. Chop, chop. Then he could dictate his novel to me. [Pause] Chop his hands off: I suppose that means I want to castrate him. Could be. I don’t think it would bother him much. I think he’d consider it gave him more time for his precious writing, his all-important fifteen minutes in the life of a little prick. [Pause] “Stunning novel” – Jesus, it had the grace of late Herman Melville and the power of a dying Emily Dickinson. You know what it was about? A sensitive young man who discovers that his mother is having an affair with the man that’s teaching him to love poetry. Sensitive young man despairs. “Oh Shelley, why has thou forsaken me?” [Pause] He’s another ball-less masturbator. [Pause]
‘You sure are quiet today. Can’t you even throw in a few uh-huhs or yesses? I’m paying you forty bucks an hour, remember? For that I should get at least two or three yesses a minute.’
‘I don’t feel like it today.’
‘You don’t feel like it today? Who cares? You think I feel like spilling out my garbage three days a week? Come on, Dr Rhinehart, you’ve gotta like it. The world is built on the principle that all humans must eat shit regardless of taste. Come on, speak up. Act like a psychiatrist. Let’s hear that faithful echo.’
‘Today I’d like to hear what you’d like to do if you could recreate the world to suit your own … highest dreams.’
‘Cut the crap. I’d turn it into a great big testicle, what else?’
[Pause] [Longer pause]
‘I’d … I’d eliminate all the human beings first … except … eh … maybe for a few. I’d destroy everything man has ever made, EVERYTHING, and I’d put – all the animals would still be there – No. No, they wouldn’t. I’d eliminate all of them too. There’d be grass though, and flowers. [Pause]
‘I can’t picture the humans. [Pause] I can’t even picture me. I must have got wiped out. Ha! Woo. My highest dream is of an empty world. Boy, that’s something. The little lays at Remo’s would love that. But where are they in this world of mine? They’re gone too. An empty, empty, empty world.’
‘Can you imagine a human being that you would like?’
‘Look, Doctor, I detest humans. I know it. Swift detested them, Mark Twain detested them. I’m in good company. It takes clods to appreciate clods, herd to appreciate herd. Whatever I am, I’ve got enough on the ball to realize that the best of humans is either weak or a phoney. You too, obviously. In fact, you psychiatrists are the biggest phonies of all.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Your phoney code of ethics. You hide behind it. I’ve sat here for four weeks telling you about my stupid, cruel, promiscuous, senseless behavior and you sit back there nodding away like a puppet and agreeing with everything I say. I’ve twitched my butt at you, flashed a little thigh, and you pretend you don’t know what I’m doing. You acknowledge nothing except what I put into words. All right; I’d like to feel your prick. [Pause] And now the good doctor will say with his quiet asinine voice, “You say you’d like to feel my prick,” and I’ll say, “Yes, it all goes back to when I was three years old and my father …” and you’ll say, “You feel the desire to feel my prick goes back … ” and we’ll both go right on acting as if the words didn’t count.’
Miss Reichman briefly paused and then raised herself on her elbows and without looking at me, spat, clearly and profusely, in a high arc, onto the rug in front of my desk.
‘I don’t blame you. I’ve been acting like an automaton. Or, more concretely, an ass.’
Miss Reichman sat up on the couch and turned from the waist to stare at me.
‘What did you say?’
‘You feel you don’t know what I said?’ But as I said this I put on a mock psychiatrist face and tried to grin intimately.
‘Holy shit, there’s a human being in there after all. [Pause] Well. Say something else. I’ve never heard you say anything before.’
‘Well, Linda, I’d say it was time to end non-directive therapy. Time you heard some of my feelings about you. Right?’
‘That’s what I just said.’
‘First, I think we’d better acknowledge that you’re outstandingly conceited. Second, that sexually you may offer much less than many women, since you are thin, with, to judge by superficial appearances only, a smallish bosom necessitating falsies [she sneered], and you probably bring the male racing to a climax before he’s got his fly totally unzipped. Thirdly, that intellectually you are extremely limited in the depth and breadth of your reading and understanding. In summation, that as human beings go you are mediocre in all respects except in the quantity of your fortune. The number of men you’ve slept with and who’ve proposed as well as propositioned, is a reflection of the openness of your legs and of your wallet, not of your personality.’
Her sneer had expanded until it had nowhere else to go on her face and so spread to her shoulders and back, which writhed theatrically away from me in disdain. By the time I finished, her face was flushed and she spoke with an exaggerated slowness and serenity.
‘Oh poor poor Linda. Only big Lukie Rhinehart can save cesspool soul from hardening into concrete shit. [She abruptly changed pace] You conceited bastard. Who do you think you are sounding off about me? You don’t know me at all. I haven’t told you anything about myself except a few sensational superficialities. And you judge me by these.’
‘Do you want to show me your breasts?’
‘Fuck you.’
‘Do you have some essays, or stories or poems, or paintings that you can show me?’
‘You can’t judge a person by measurements or by essays. When I make love to a man they don’t forget it. They know they’ve had a woman, and not some fluffed-up iceberg. And you’ll hide behind your precious ethics and feel superior because all you see is the surface.’
‘What other good qualities do you have?’
‘I call a spade a spade. I know. I’m not perfect and I say so, and I’ve learned that you psychiatrists are priggish little voyeurs and I tell you, and that’s why you all end up attacking me. You can’t stand the truth.’
‘My ethics kept me from making love to you?’
‘Yes, unless you’re a fairy, like another headshrinker I knew.’
‘Let me then formally announce that in my future relations with you I will not seek to maintain the traditional patient-doctor relationship and I will not abide by the standard of ethics set down in the code of the American Association of Practicing Psychiatrists. From now on I shall respond to you as human to human. As psychiatrist human I will advise you, but no more. How’s that?’
Linda shifted her feet to the floor and looked over at me with a slow smile, meant to suggest sexiness? She was, in fact, reasonably sexy. She was slender, clear-complexioned, full-lipped. As long as she had been my patient, however, I had not responded to her sexually one millimeter, or to any other female patient in five years, despite writhings, declarations, propositions, strippings and attempted rapes – all of which had occurred during one session or another. But the doctor-patient relationship froze my sexual awareness as completely as doing fifty push-ups under a cold shower. Looking at Linda Reichman smile and perceptibly arch her back and project her (true or false?) bosom, I felt my loins, for the first time in my analytic history, respond.
Her smile slowly curled into a sneer.
‘It’s better than you were, but that’s not saying much.’
‘I thought you wanted to feel my prick.’
‘I can’t be bothered.’
‘In that case, let’s get back to you. Lie down again and let your mind go.’
‘What do you mean, lie down again. You just said you were going to be human. Humans don’t talk to each other with their backs to each other.’
‘True. So go ahead, we’ll talk … eyeball to eyeball.’
She looked at me again and her eyes narrowed slightly and her upper lip twitched twice. She stood up and faced me. The light from my desk picked up a light perspiration on her face, which revealed this time no suggestive smile – although one may have been intended – but rather a tense grimace. She roved slightly toward me, unbuttoning her skirt at the side as she approached.
‘I think maybe it would be good for both of us – if we got to know each other physically. Don’t you?’
She came to the chair and let her skirt fall to the floor. Her half-slip must have gone with it. She had on white silk bikini-panties but no stockings. Sitting down in my lap (the chair tipped back another three inches with an undignified squeak), her eyes half-closed, she looked up into my face and said drowsily, ‘Don’t you?’
Frankly, the answer was yes. I had a fine erection, my pulse was forty percent, my loins were being activated by all the requisite hormones and my mind, as nature intended it in such cases, was functioning vaguely and without energy. Her lips and tongue came wetly against and into my mouth, her fingers along my neck and into my hair. She was role-playing Brigitte Bardot and I was responding accordingly. After a prolonged, satisfactory kiss, she stood up, and with a set, drowsy, mechanical half-smile removed, item by item, her blouse, bra (she hadn’t needed falsies), bracelet, wristwatch and panties.
Since I continued to sit with a blissfully unplanned and idiotic expression, she hesitated, and sensed that somewhere about now was my cue to embrace her passionately, carry her to the couch and consummate our union. I decided to miss the cue. After this brief hesitation (her now wet upper lip twitched once), she knelt down beside me and fingered my fly. She undid the belt, a hook and lowered the zipper. Since I didn’t move one millimeter (voluntarily) she had trouble extricating her desired object from my boxer undershorts. When she had succeeded in freeing him from his cage, he stood with dignified stiffness, trembling slightly, like a young scholar about to have a doctoral hood lowered over his head. (The rest of me was cold and immobile as the code of ethics of AAPP encourages us.) She leaned forward to put her mouth over it.
